


No Such Thing (As Magic)

by DestielsDestiny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 2.0, Breakfast, Chronic Pain, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Bonding, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter References, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, IronStrange Week May 2018, M/M, Parent Yondu Udonta, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is a Little Shit, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Snap-Everyone's-Back-Now, Precious Peter Parker, Recovery, Stephen Strange Bamf, Stephen Strange POV, Superfamily, The Hobbit References, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yondu Udonta Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15606336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Tony reads Harry Potter aloud. Stephen makes breakfast. And Peter picks out paint colours. Or, the aftermath of winning.





	No Such Thing (As Magic)

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This was originally written for the IronStrange Week May 2018, prompt Day 2 (5/15) : Magic | Science  
> Yondu was not originally supposed to be in this story. I have no excuses for why he is.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious–” 

“Uh, Mr. Stark, I’m kind of old for bedtime stories.” Tony rolled over and regarded Peter with a patient expression. Stephen idly pushed away the floating text that was poking at the Cloak in an alarmingly inquiring way, attempting to keep his face completely blank of expression. 

“…Are you seriously complaining about my super awesome attempts to establish a new bonding ritual over here Kid?” Stephen gave up and face-palmed a groan into an obligingly cloak softened hand. Peter appeared undeterred, swinging along the roof in a distinctly pouty manner. “But I’m sixteen-” Stephen peaked out around the edge of the Cloak. Yep, Tony was definitely now attempting to out pout their teenage sort-of but sorta-not son. 

“Peter?” The Cloak swiveled an incredulous fold his way at the affected firmness in the tone. Stephen ignored it. Someone had to be the adult around here. The boy swung back his way, and Stephen deliberately didn’t let himself react beyond a heart jumping into his throat. That webbing was very strong. Very strong indeed. Stronger than starkanium, personally Stark certified as stronger than starkanium. 

Aunt May approved. Safe. 

Stephen’s heart stayed where it was, a gentle tendril of magic guiding Peter at least partially back onto the roof. 

“Yes Dr. Wizard?” Stephen glared, “That’s not my-oh, never mind,” He took a deep breath at the smirk being shot his way on two fronts now. Adult, remember, someone needs to be the adult. “In the interests of getting to bed before the sun actually rises, perhaps we could compromise as none of us are currently actually in a bed, and call this a pre-sleep team bonding experience?” Stephen put far too much of his diplomatic skills into that statement. But, well, some of them had to be up early the next morning. 

Peter was busy looking contemplative when a whistle rent through the night air. The Cloak nearly smacked Stephen in the head as they all swiveled in unison to regard the upper level of the roof at their backs. 

Yondu leaned down casually, a tree limb wrapped about his shoulders. He appeared not in the least concerned with the easily three meter drop between him and the impromptu roof dwellers, because Tony had been very insistent that, “Everything is more fun with starlight!” Considering the amount of time they’d all spent in space recently, Stephen could appreciate the comfort of having the stars reassuringly in plain view and far, far away. 

But he had a reputation to maintain, so he’d merely followed a literally bouncing Peter with a sigh and a retorted, “Fine, but I’m not doing this when it’s November Stark. I have no interest in treating you for hypothermia.” For reasons neither of them were going to examine too closely, Tony had looked oddly choked up at that.  
Yondu snatched a blur of light casually from the air, and frowned hard enough at them for it to be clearly visible just by the faint red afterglow wreathing his shoulders. “How ‘bout you pink-skins shud it with the chatter and git to the tale-tellin. Summa us’uv never heard about them Dursloughs before!”

Peter actually gasped, apparently at the sheer impossibility of meeting someone who hadn’t read Harry Potter. Even if they were from another galaxy. Literally. 

The text glowed brighter and brighter and shivered in distinct agitation. 

Stephen groaned and buried his head in the Cloak. It patted his head soothingly, and the air was rather nippy for June, the Compound’s roof hard against his shoulders, but Tony’s voice rose and fell in a perfect cadence, clear as a bell in the night air. 

Above their heads, the stars blinked brighter and brighter. 

And Stephen was forced to admit that as super-awesome-attempts-to-establish-new-bonding-rituals went, this wasn’t half bad. 

He was still researching heating spells for when the frost came though. 

00  
Tony’s wound wasn’t bleeding. Stephen ran his hand over the area again, then his magic. 

Nothing. 

Well, an alarming amount of scar tissue and the traces of-was that heavy metal poisoning? But no blood, no freshly torn muscles or perforated internal organs. Almost as if—

“Tony,” Stephen’s voice sounded oddly scratchy in the Wakandan air. He shivered, even though it must have been 30 degrees at an outside guess. The Cloak wrapped tighter around his shoulders. Stephen caught Tony’s head with an almost spasming arm, it was shaking so badly. “Tony,” He traced his fingers down the side of the man’s face. Real. This was real, “…how long were we gone?” 

Because there were people everywhere, people he didn’t recognize, people he barely knew, people he only recognized from news reporter or magazine covers. He felt more than saw Tony’s swallow, raw and painful and choked, “…way too long Doc. Way too long.” The last was whispered, like saying it aloud was horribly painful.  
Stephen watched a racoon attempting to strangle the life out of tree sapling, and shut his eyes. He was oddly dizzy. 

Then Stark’s arms were around his shoulders, the arc reactor pressed against his aching chest, and Stephen realized he wasn’t the only one who was shaking. 

So he held on, as hard and as fast as he could. 

He was still a doctor after all. 

And bleeding wounds or shaking limbs or nearly world ending events, doctors should always try their very best to make people better. 

00

Separation anxiety. Stephen had heard of it, of course he had. He hadn’t completely slept through that psych rotation. 

And after Donna died, he’d sometimes find himself speaking without thinking, a teasing smile on his face, only to turn and realize he was addressing thin air. 

Even decades later, there were still nights he woke in a cold sweat, the sting of ice on his fingers, his hand reaching out to grasp at air and always, always being too late. 

He never does take off the watch Christine gave him. 

So yes, he understands the concept. Very well actually. Intimately, even. 

But somehow, when he opens the Sanctum door, eyes blurry with exhaustion, barely three hours after leaving Wakanda, after winning, and finds himself with an armful of crying teenager, webs sticking to everything, somehow, he’s still caught by surprise. 

But then, Tony stumbles down the stairs, the Cloak wrapped around his shoulders apparently the only thing keeping him upright, and Stephen just extends an arm in silent invitation. 

And maybe he’s not so very surprised after all. 

00  
Tony suggests May move in too. He suggests they move in with her and Peter. He even suggests Stephen make them a pocket dimension to hide out in. She blinks at that last one, but even then, her glare remains truly terrifying to behold. 

Peter practically webs Tony into his bedroom “to do homework, promise!”

Stephen takes a sip of his now lukewarm tea and waits. May glares at hallway Peter and Tony just disappeared down for a beat, then turns iceberg cold eyes on Stephen. “I would do anything for Peter. Anything.” But don’t ask me to do this. It hung in the air, unspoken and suffocating. 

Stephen sipped his tea. He wanted to say, I would die for them. But then, there was no would about it. He already had, millions of times. 

He wanted to say, I would burn down the galaxy for them. But again, no would about it. 

There was no other way. And yeah, maybe. But only Stephen would ever know either way, and he most definitely isn’t telling. “Mrs. Parker-” the glare intensified. Whoops. “May. This will always be Peter’s home. And you will always be his…” Stephen’s mad diplomacy skillz failed him epically, “…adult.” May’s lips twitched upwards for half a moment. “But you don’t have to do it all on your own anymore.” He doesn’t say, and Peter needs this, right now. Needs us. 

He has at long last learned the value of knowing when to shut up. 

Well, sort of. “Plus, Tony bought roughly half-a-hardware store’s worth of paint this morning, and I’m fairly sure the return policy sucks.” 

When Peter and Tony edge cautiously into kitchen, it is to find their respective “adults” leaning on each other, laughter and tears mixing into the by now stone cold tea. 

They get Peter weekends and every other Monday and Wednesday. 

Tony invents 3D facetime that includes touch sensation. Stephen figures out paint-stains do in fact wash out of relics, even one’s as reckless as the Cloak of Levitation. 

And one day, when Peter’s hanging upside down from the ceiling and throwing chocolate chips at the Cloak, May will offer Tony a cup of tea with an expression that is not a frown. 

And somehow, they all muddle through to somewhere that, if it’s not exactly okay, well, it might just get there some day. 

00

Technically, Stephen never moves out of the Sanctum. And technically, Tony never moves in. 

Around the time he begins surfing engagement ring websites in his spare time, Stephen asks Wong what his opinion on co-habiting with a future husband is. “I mean, if I’m asking him to spend the rest of our lives together, we should live together, right?” 

Wong blinks at him, clearly not feeling that this was a question which merited pausing Beyoncé for. “Really Stephen, what do you think portals were invented for.” 

Wong goes back to Beyoncé. Stephen goes back to ring shopping. 

And buys an extra pair of pajamas. He draws the line at portalling in his underwear and a Cloak. 

00  
Peter can’t choose what colour to paint his room. In the boy’s defense, Stephen hadn’t even known there was that many shades of red and blue. 

Fortunately for the lack of a return policy, someone gives Rocket access to the paint brushes. 

Stephen isn’t even sure if what ends up on the walls qualifies as a colour. 

But makes Peter smile, so he can’t quite bring himself to care about the affront to human eyeballs that is his boyfriend’s sorta kid’s new room. 

00  
It was Tony’s morning to cook. 

Stephen took one sleepy look at his boyfriend’s form sprawled on top of the covers and quietly slipped out of bed to snag the extra-fluffy quilt from the chest of drawers. He had seen corpses that looked better. 

And yes, they had a chest of drawers. 

It had been Stephen’s concession for letting Tony buy all Avengers themed bedding. Although even then, he almost drew the line at the Rocket Racoon pillow cases.  
Rocket hated being called a Racoon. 

Tony safely tucked in with his favourite Hulk saves kittens duvet, Stephen shuffled sleepily into the kitchen, mumbling a quick cantation at the fridge door, which obligingly swung open. 

After a week of particular intense magic use, his hands were rather…stiff. Yes, that sounded nice and neutral and not agonizing. 

Stephen blinked into the fridge, weighing how mad Thor would be if he used the frozen pop tarts as a make-shift ice pack. 

The Cloak choose that moment to whip by, a racoon perched firmly on its folds like he was riding a surf board, laughing manically all the while. 

A deafening yell followed them, as something gold and burning whipped past Stephen’s eyeline. 

“You get back here right now Rat!” Forcing his shredded muscles to move as fast as his magic could make them, Stephen snagged the arrow out of mid-flight, the alien metal jumping and shivering in his shaky grip. 

The Tower’s latest blue occupant choose that moment to saunter into the room, looking suspiciously unhurried and unbothered for someone shouting threats at seven in the morning. 

Stephen arched an eyebrow, “Little early isn’t it?” He carefully did not look down. Yondu wasn’t much into clothing at this hour. 

Not that he necessarily minded, per say. But, well, Stephen was taken. And that included not looking. So. 

Thwap. Stephen glared at the deep red garment that was somehow glaring back at him, the unspoken You sap clear as day. 

Yondu took the opportunity to casually snag his arrow back with a deft whistle, a trail of red sparks falling onto the polished linoleum. He cocked his fin, considering. “Ya really do wear tha’ thing everywhere, don’t cha.” It wasn’t a question. 

Stephen squared his shoulder, attempting to own the look, smug Cloak and all. The Black Panther Pajamas helped. 

The Iron Man slippers probably didn’t. Stephen wished he could blame being in a relationship with a billionaire superhero for his wardrobe. Or his distinctly ascetic sorcerer lifestyle. 

But, well. “Hey Doc, Yond-woah, maybe put some clothes on there man!” Peter looked for all the world like a typical teenager, slouching tent of a t-shirt proclaiming, I Heart Wakanda in large letters, eyes bleary with too little sleep and too much sciencing.  
And yes, Tony had trademarked that word. 

Yondu’s expression softened, as it always did when Peter was in the vicinity. His Peter or their Peter, either would do. 

But then, considering how Yondu had first met them, the softening is by far one of the more understandable things about the odd blue alien that seemed to be quite happy to take up semi-permanent residence in their lives. 

Stephen had asked Yondu how long he was planning to stay once, when several bewildered delivery men showed up at the Tower’s front door, sheepishly asking where they should put the giant smurf someone had ordered. The giant orange smurf. In response to which the alien regarded him with a baleful expression that clearly telegraphed, What are ya, some kinda idiot, in every line of his body. 

Stephen had followed his gaze to where Peter, Yondu’s version that is, was positioning the smurf in the corner of the common room, and mentally rolled his eyes at himself, Idiot indeed. 

Stephen isn’t sure how they ended up with Yondu Udonta on earth. Never mind how he was alive. 

But when the dust settled in that Wakandan forest, Stephen was frankly too busy attempting to juggle an unconscious Tony to be anything but grateful that there was suddenly this giant, half-frozen looking blue guy just there, helping to support their frantic Peter, his own frantic Peter damn near welded to his shoulders. 

The subject of “How are you alive?” hadn’t really come up. It had hardly been the time. And if it happens to never be the time, well, Stephen’s more than okay with that. If the Universe asks, or the Ancient One comes back to haunt him, Stephen figures he’s got a pretty safe get-out-of-the-rules-free card in the form of one rather dead Thanos. 

Plus, having Yondu around could be mighty useful. Case in point, “Come’n kiddo, help me find those Rocket Pants of yur da’s. It’ll piss off the Rat t’no end.” 

Stephen is too grateful for the blissful silence descending over the kitchen to bother calling out “language!” 

After all, they couldn’t expect him to be the only adult in the tower and make breakfast. 

Even Sorcerer Supremes’ had their limits. 

00

Stephen glared at the egg carton. He had been doing alright, hadn’t even spilled anything, well, not much. Until the eggs. And then there would be the mixing, and the measuring…

Stephen’s hands spasmed violently, as if in protest of the very thought. Sighing, he cast about once more for the Cloak. Which choose that moment to fly by the tower window, racoon still firmly in place. 

A moment later, the arrow zipped past, Yondu now hanging from it with one hand. Fortunately, he had found some pants in the interim. 

Stephen considered his options. He could order in. He could wake up Tony. He could ask the bots for help. He could get Friday broadcast sections of New York’s safe airspace code out the window. Or…

Tony stumbles into the kitchen just after eight, his bleary eyes fixed on the coffee pot with beady determination. Stephen flicks it towards him with a twist of orange light. Tony is half way through a sleepy “thank you darl-” when the penny finally drops. 

Tony blinked at the coffee pot, floating in mid air before him. 

He glances at the table, where Yondu, thankfully fully clothed, is attempting to convince a grumpy Groot to surrender the orange juice jug. “C’mon branch…I’ll let you use my laptop.” Groot looks far too interested, and Stephen sighs from his place at the stove, supervising a pair of pancakes as they flipped themselves in the air. Guess they didn’t have to worry about the smurf getting lonely…

“Stephen?” Stephen kept his tone bland. “Yes dear?” Tony paused…“Why is the toaster dancing?” Stephen arched an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “She was bored.” 

Tony’s mouth is still working silently when Peter swings into the kitchen, dropping down beside Tony with a barely controlled crash and an eager whoop. “Dad, Papa’s even better than Molly Weasley at this!”

The toaster chooses that moment to pop up alternate bread slices in a not-half-bad rendition of the Harry Potter theme song. 

Stephen glares at the kitchen at large. Next time he’s going with plan A and ordering a pizza. 

00

“Hey Mr. Stark?” Tony’s laugh sounded wet and rattily, even muffled against the torn edges of Stephen’s tunic. His eyes were glassy where they turned from Stephen’s chest to regard the boy at the center of their tangle of limbs and tears. “Think you’ve more than earned the right to call me Tony there kid.” 

A shudder ran through Peter’s already shaking frame, his mask hanging limply from one fist, the webbing trailing against Stephen’s shoulder as Peter thumped the fist spasmodically against the sorcerer’s embrace. 

“How do you know we won’t disappear again?” Cause I’m scared. Stephen heard it, clear as day. And if Tony’s increased shaking was anything to go by, so did he. 

Yet somehow, somehow, the man still found the strength to grin. “C’mon Peter, we’re literally being smothered-hugged by a wizard. Like Purple-Fuggly’s corpse over there would stand a chance against that.”

And it was wet and awful sounding, but undeniably, that thing hacking into Stephen’s chest, like a dimensional rip into his heart? That was Peter Parker laughing.

Stephen wrapped a shaking hand of his own around each of his companions’, and leaned into the depths of the embrace, and scoffed. “Oh please, like Cloak would let something happen to any of us.” 

And if the near bone crushing pressure the Cloak applied as if dove around them all and wrapped up the embrace in a ruby red covering was anything to judge by, it agreed. 

00

Hank Pym comes to lunch every Saturday, which is awkward. He brings his wife, which is less awkward, even though she’s been presumed dead since before Peter was born. 

Stephen is never entirely sure of the details of this weekly exercise in awkward politeness. 

He and Tony do talk about what happened while half of them were trapped in a pocket dimension. Really, they do. Just, not all the time. Or all the details. 

For example, how Tony became BFFs with Hank Pym’s daughter while Stephen was…away. 

And even though it’s been months, and even though they’ve both actually seen therapists and gotten through whole nights without night terrors. Even though they drink less than they cry, and laugh more than they scream, somehow, Stephen has never made the effort to ask about this piece of the puzzle. 

Maybe it’s the presence of Jane Van Dyne, maybe he just keeps forgetting, or maybe it just really doesn’t seem all that important.

Because, well, it’s Hope. 

So here he is, thirteen weeks back on Terra, thirteen awkward lunches later, watching Dr. Pym watch Tony flick his gaze continually between the bottle of Cheval Blanc ’47 the doctor and his wife brought, and the doctor himself. Tony’s spine is ramrod straight, his muscles quivering where his shoulder just brushes Stephen’s. His face is set and still in a way that Stephen has never seen before, not even on Titan. 

His tone though, now that Stephen’s heard before. Directed at one very specific person. 

“How bout we call it the Illuminati?” And that’s belligerence, that’s bluster and arrogance and abrasive as fuck. That’s pure Tony Stark, Ltd. 

But there is also just that edge of fragility to the words. Just that touch of resignation about his boyfriend’s eyes. Just that sliver of hope, flicking over Tony’s face one moment and gone the next. 

And it breaks Stephen’s heart, that edge. That glimmer. It shatters it into tiny pieces, makes his fingers clench into a trembling fist under the table, his knuckles bumping into Tony’s knee. 

It is the hand that squeezes on his fist that makes him finally flick his own eyes to Pym’s, transfiguring the pain etching across his features into a potent glare, because for Tony to need the reassurance enough to break his self-imposed “don’t break Stephen rule”…

Pym, for his part, would make an excellent poker player. He blinks slowly at them, face impassive. And Stephen would have missed it, it’s that fast, but for just a nanosecond, the doctor’s own eyes slide to the bottle on the table. And for just a moment more, his eyes hold an infinite sadness. 

And his tone, when he speaks, makes Stephen catch his breath, even more than his words do, incongruous as they are. “Is that a Dan Brown reference?” 

Tony’s mouth actually falls open. Stephen has Friday to back him up on that. And no, the wariness doesn’t fade, the posture doesn’t slacken, the trembling doesn’t stop, the grip on his hand doesn’t lessen. 

But that sliver of hope is back, turning naked and open and achingly obvious. 

Tony’s muscles bunched, his movement telegraphing hesitation to Stephen, but also inquiry. And even tentative intent. 

Stephen grasps it tight, even as he forces his fingers to spasm open instead of closed for once, as he follows through on that intent, takes the initiative and pulls an unresisting arm back and up and out. 

He doesn’t exactly smack their hands onto the table top, doesn’t rattle any plates or knock over any glasses. But their fingers remain intertwined, the significance unmistakable and unapologetic. 

And maybe Stephen has a clearer idea of who they’re really trying to prove something to than Tony does, even if he isn’t quite as clear on the what. And maybe all Pym does is glance at them oddly. 

And maybe Captain America doesn’t drop from the ceiling to glare disapproving. Maybe Howard Stark’s ghost doesn’t flicker to life to scream at them. Maybe nothing happens at all. 

But somehow, when Dr. Pym grasps Dr. Van Dyne’s hand across the table, Tony flings out a retort that is more witty than confrontational and dickish. 

“Well, we do have a real live wizard.” And then, Dr. Pym does the impossible, and becomes Hank. Because his response to that; to pure, unadulterated Tony? 

His response is to laugh, eyes warmer and brighter than Stephen’s ever seen them. 

And when Dr. Van Dyne offers him a glass during dessert, an elegant eyebrow quirked in gentle amusement in her husband’s direction, a kind hand on Tony’s arm, his boyfriend accepts without protest. 

And yes, he glances at Hank through every careful sip, but when the evening is drawing to a close, the passionate kiss he draws Stephen into inches from their companions is full of sweetness that has nothing to do with the rather spectacular vintage of the Pym-Van Dyne’s idea of an appropriate host-and-host gift. 

Naturally, Friday’s interrupts them mid-kiss. “Boss, Dr. Xavier is on the line for you, he says it’s a matter of the utmost urgency.” Over Tony’s shoulder, Erik Lehnsherr floats through a curled back support beam, his arms full of what appears to be a profusely bleeding Wolverine. 

Like, the kind with actual fur. Tony drops his forehead into Stephen’s chest with a groaned, “We’re on vacation!” Which, well, they were. 

Janet giggles most inappropriately through assisting Stephen in stemming the bleeding, not an easy task he might add, because a, fur, and b, Lehnsherr won’t put the poor creature down. Or stop glaring alarmingly at them with murder eyes.

Tony’s words, not Stephen’s.

Also, somehow, Hank and Tony end up taking turns feeding the thing cream from a suspiciously expensive looking saucer. 

And Professor Xavier hasn’t even arrived yet. Stephen catches Tony’s eye for a moment, his magic not pausing in carefully wrapping a bandage around the wolverine-Wolverine? Logan?-but still, “No Tony! We are not putting a wolverine on my pillow!” 

And this being their lives, that’s how the Illuminati is formed. 

Although, for the record, Tony still owes him a new pillow. 

00

“In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit–” 

“Whatsa Hobbit?” “Jus shut up and listen to the story Blue!” Stephen spit Rocket’s tail out of his mouth, and abruptly clapped his hands together. Blue sparkles fell from the darkened sky, landing on everyone’s assortment of parkas and repurposed duvets. 

“One more interruption and I’m letting Drax pick the story.” Everyone looked at Draw. Or what they could see of him around the fluffy toque he was wearing. Which was mostly his chest, because apparently that part of him didn’t get cold. Drax blinked back from under the edge of the hat, “That would be most unwise, considering the children present.” My thoughts exactly Stephen thought, even as Peter and Ned and MJ and Harley tripped over each other with choruses’ of “We’re not children.” 

And Stephen might have been inclined to give them a half-point for effort, if Cassie hadn’t glanced around her new found idols and happily joined in the battle cry. 

Hank snorted from his arm chair…and nope, Stephen wasn’t even touching that one. “Let’s just let the man read the story kids.” Tony nuzzled a grin into Stephen’s neck, whispering into his boyfriend’s ear, “D’you suppose that includes us?” Stephen snorted, shooting Tony a look that clearly said, The adult in this scenario, remember?

And then, his boyfriend snuggled against his chest, his family surrounding them, crammed into every available space on the roof, the text scrawl leaping between eager shades of purple and pink and starburst red-orange, Stephen settled back, and began to read. 

And above them, drifting down through fluffy clouds and gently blinking stars, it began to snow. 

00

Crunch! 

It’s just the three of them at breakfast. Stephen’s not sure how they managed that, except that Yondu had yanked his Peter out by the ear, growls that might have been “they need bondin’ time, don’t they”, and what looked suspiciously like a parenting-guide stuffed under the arm not holding Groot by an obliging branch. 

He’s wondering idly whether it’s too late to ask Tony to cancel the blue alien’s unlimited credit card-in his defence, eventually even Tony’s seemingly limitless closet space will run out of room to put giant stuffed smurfs in-and blissfully ignoring Tony’s glare at the distinctly soggy cereal-Stephen never claimed to be a good cook, he’s a wizard, not a chef-when Peter looks up from his fruit loops and mumbles out around cheeks bulging with soggy cereal, “So, when are you two finally going to get married?” 

Stephen freezes, spoonful pausing in mid float to his mouth, because it wasn’t a good day for his hands. It almost never was, since, well, since. 

He knew he should have waited until it was Wong’s turn to go buy lunch before shopping for rings. 

Tony, meanwhile, has managed to click his mouth shut, the surprise wearing off into bravado. He gestured vaguely at Stephen with a still dry spoon. “Merlin over there’s taller, he should be the one to ask.” 

Stephen snorted, and decided to call his boyfriend’s bluff. Merlin Tony, really?

But as he raises his hand to conjure up the ring he’s been hiding in a pocket dimension for the past month, personal misuse of magic be damned, he’s saved the entire universe how many times, his eyes catch Tony’s. Tony’s wide, hopeful, scared eyes. 

Stephen blinks. Oh. Well, alright then. He glances at Peter’s hopeful face, the Cloak doing excited pirouettes behind the boy’s head. 

He looks back at Tony. Well, there are worse places to propose to the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, even if you never thought to actually admit it out loud. 

Stephen holds his fingers up, his hand already aching with the effort of holding it even a little bit steady, the ring materializing in a puff of red-gold smoke, “Dr. Stark, will you do me the honour–” Careful fingers wrapped around his cramping hand, folding the ring between their overlapping palms. 

Whiskey brown eyes catch his and hold, for what feels like an eternity, even though Stephen knows, all of them around this breakfast table, eating soggy fruit loops and debating who cheated at monopoly, know that time doesn’t work like that. 

A slash of milk drops from Peter’s spoon into his bowl, “Mr. Stark, say something already!” When Tony laughed, the vibrations ran from his throat right through their joined hands, to warm something in Stephen’s chest he hadn’t realized was cold. 

“Fri-i-” Tony dissolved into another fit of laughter, his forehead falling into Stephen’s chest. Stephen quirked a brow at Peter, receiving a puzzled shrug in response, was that yes?

“Doc Wizard, the Boss would like me to extend to you a most emphatic, Hell Yes, in response to your proposal.” For once, Stephen didn’t even think about correcting Friday’s form of address. 

He was too busy guiding Tony’s face upwards with a trembling yet gentle hand along his chin, drawing their faces together until his fiancé captured his mouth in the single hottest kiss he’d ever received. And that counted the ones after the world didn’t end. 

In the background, Peter’s whoops were loud enough to startle the entire pile of Guardians who had no doubt been listening at the door, prompting a racoon-alien-teenager pile on the floor, Peter’s ecstatic “He said yes!” being lost every few moments in a tangle of limbs and answering cheers and calls of “Course he said yes! Yer all idjits!” and “Who you callin an idjit!” 

Stephen rested his forehead against Tony’s, against his fiance’s, laughing until tears were streaming down his face. And then they were kissing again, breathless and joyous and so, so good. 

And maybe, Stephen can’t help thinking, this is what being okay feels like.


End file.
